


Those Shitty Mystrade Oneshots

by Choking_Noises



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 13:02:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9821678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Choking_Noises/pseuds/Choking_Noises
Summary: Title pretty much sums it up. Not dressed to impress. My writing is probably a -5/10 in quality but I got the occasional joke.Challenge: Use 3 random words in your oneshot. Pft. So easy. (Don't do this its fucking cancerous.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> This one is Mystrade but the ships will occasionally change. Get ready for out of character Greg and bitch ass Mycroft.

Bulldozer - (bulldoze) to use intense force when dealing with someone or something.  
Body - you know.  
Torch - a fucking torch like the ancient flashlight bullshit.

 

Yesterday was a bad day. Today is an even worse day. Because Lestrade is experiencing the worst hangover in history, in an apartment that's not his own. 

 

After lying on the floor for a while, Greg reluctantly wiped the sleep from his eyes and attempted to get on his feet. Though he was dizzy, he managed to walk the length of the corridor he had been sleeping in. 

 

Stumbling around like an idiot, his eyes blurry and his head spinning, Greg found a metal handle to grasp on. He slowly twisted the knob, his body leaning on the door. 

 

A rush of cold air flew out of the room, causing Lestrade to blink rapidly, tears coming to his eyes. Nothing was clear or identifiable due to the blur in his vision, or the throb on his skull. 

 

“Hello?” He asked, though it was very possible no one would answer. Greg rubbed his fists into his eyes again, wiping tears and the feel of stale contact lenses away. 

 

“Yes?” It was a man's voice, and he seemed to be just as confused as Greg. His eyes focused, creating the clear image of a man’s naked body rushing to a closet. Greg gave a smothered laugh and continued. 

 

“Who are you?” Lestrade wasn't too familiar with the concept personal space so he followed the man into the room. “And why am I here?” He pushed his way into the closet. 

 

The man pushed it back shut. 

 

“Many people call me Wikipedia,” the man said with heavy breaths. Greg assumed he was quickly dressing himself. “But I can't answer your personal questions.” While Greg was still trying to yank the door open, the man burst through in a suit, his hair a mess though. With his back turned to Greg, the man rushed to the bathroom. “Would you like to read more?” 

 

Greg laughed again, so surprisingly comfortable with this stranger. “Name?” Greg followed him into the bathroom. 

 

The man swooshed around, revealing his face. “Mycroft. If you insist.” Greg smiled. Relieved it was Mycroft, he sighed. 

 

“Thank god it's you,” Greg pushed Mycroft's shoulder, playfully. “I thought I had a terrible one night stand with someone I didn't know.” 

 

“I thought you'd recognize me earlier.” 

 

“I agree. I'm too used to seeing you naked that I should have recognized your bare arse.” Greg stood next to Mycroft as he combed his hair. “What did we do last night? I feel like shit.”

 

“And you look like it too,” Mycroft frowned as he tried to run the comb through Lestrade's hair. “Do you ever brush your hair—?” 

 

“Stop!” Greg pushed away from Mycroft, patting down his hair. “I kinda like it like this.” Greg looked into the mirror and posed. “Gotta look good for the ladies.” 

 

“What ladies? Your wife is divorcing you and we have sex on a daily basis,” Mycroft chuckled, and expected the same from Lestrade, but he was too busy fixing his hair. 

 

“I'm so hungover.” Greg walked from the bathroom and plopped onto the bed. “And why are we not at your house?” 

 

“I don't know. You brought me here.” Mycroft straightened the collar of his shirt. “You were completely wasted when I came to pick you up for our date. Want to apologize?” Mycroft sat down next to Lestrade. 

 

“No. I want a bottle of your most expensive wine and a warm blanket. Treat me like a princess and I'll bottom tonight.” 

 

“You bastard,” Mycroft huffed as he left the room. Greg wiggled into the comforter and rubbed his face into the pillow. He was so tired he might have taken a 5 minute power nap, or just blacked out but a couple of minutes had passed too fast. 

 

***

 

“You're an idiot, you know?” Mycroft walked into the room with another blanket and a bottle of wine. 

 

“I know,” Greg groaned as he gained consciousness. “I try to ignore it at all costs.” 

 

“I mean you're going to overdraft your bank account. Your wife is going to kill you.” Mycroft placed the bottle on the bedside table and draped the blanket over Lestrade. 

 

“And you're going to pay for everything because you're rich,” Greg wrapped his arms around the blanket. Mycroft looked at him like he wanted to hear more. “And because you love me.” 

 

Mycroft sighed as he popped open the bottle. “Glass?” 

 

“No. Straight from the bottle. That's how the single mothers do it, right?” Greg snatched the wine and gulped it down. 

 

“I hate you.” Mycroft sat down on the opposite side of the bed. Lestrade frowned. He pulled the bottle from his mouth and wiped his lips. 

 

“I hate you too, this blanket isn't even warm.” Greg rolled closer to Mycroft and rested his head on his chest. 

 

(Now how the fuck do I incorporate torch and bulldozer to my crack fic?)

 

“I think I'm dying,” Greg complained as he swallowed more wine. “Hand me your phone, I need to call work.” 

 

“I'll call Sherlock and tell him you can't make it to the tea party,” Mycroft laughed. Greg grunted and yawned. 

 

“Why was I asleep in that hallway?” Greg sat up and stretched his body. “I broke my back.” 

 

“You get so angry when you're drunk. On your way here you managed to bulldoze anyone in your path and I wasn't about to get my feelings hurt.” 

 

“Oh listen to Mycroft, all his feelings,” Greg taunted. 

 

“Shut up you asshole,” Mycroft got up from bed and pushed Lestrade off of him. He walked to the corner of the room and threw Greg a bag. “Call in for work and stay here. I've got government business.” 

 

Greg recognized the bag, and pulled out his phone. Ten missed calls from Mr. Sassy Pants. And Sherlock said he prefered to text. 

 

Lestrade called Sherlock back, the phone barely ringing before he picked up. 

 

“Hello?” Greg asked between gulps of wine. 

 

“Case. Woman's house set on fire, some sort of torch bullshit. Where are you? Invite me to the crime scene detective inspector Lestrade.” Sherlock talked too fast, and you could hear John trying to comfort the baby in the background. 

 

“Not my division.” 

 

And he hung up. Bitch.


End file.
